


Interstellar Gator-Skin Boots

by Rhanon_Brodie



Category: Arctic Monkeys
Genre: Alcohol, Alex Turner singng, Alex Turner strumming his guitar, Alex gets taken for a ride, Arabella - Freeform, Dream Sequence, Drunk Blow Jobs, F/M, Knee Socks, Smoking, Song fic, Surreal, based on a video, girl on top, gratuitous descriptions of Alex Turner and his hips, have I used Alex Turner in enough tags yet, over use of lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhanon_Brodie/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn't written this song yet.  Or has he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interstellar Gator-Skin Boots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marksmanfem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/gifts).



> Based on the Arctic Monkeys' video for 'Arabella'. marksmanfem wanted Alex Turner goodness, so I delivered. I'm not a huge fan of song-fic, and I refuse to repost the lyrics (after all, if you're here, you're probably an Arctic Monkeys fan, so you know all the words anyway. If you don't, google them).
> 
> All recognizable content herein is the property of its respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

Another night, another show, another smoky bar room that would feel out of place if he were anyone else. As it is, all he can do is let his mates take him along through the paces, one number after the other. Success is a beautiful thing, and ugly, too. He’s tired, but it’s good and in his bones as he slips out of his suit jacket and pulls at the knot of the skinny tie. The latter he slings over the microphone, even though the women dancing close are dying for any piece of him. A smug smile lifts his lips as the females surrounding him coo and sigh, and he tugs the buttons on his sleeves open. Slowly, he folds the cuffs back, revealing black ink on his inner forearm, and the heat feels like it’s gone up by fifty degrees. He closes his eyes as the drummer takes over with a hip-hop beat, while next to him, the bass strings are plucked with enough precision to raise goose pimples. This is what he lives for, really – the pulse, and the pace, and the performance. Everybody loves him, and everybody wants him, but he’s never been one for clichéd hook ups with the faceless.

Then, she walks in.

Right in the middle of crooning of interstellar daydreams and silver swimsuits, he sees her not even glance in his direction, making a beeline for the bar in platform heels and some slinky green dress. Not red; she doesn’t want to be seen by everyone; not black – she’s not that understated. Green means go, and even as his mouth forms words he’s written and he knows very well, his fingers slip along the neck of his guitar, eager to finish the song, finish the set, and see what she’s all about. She orders a drink; he’s not close enough to see what it is, and he’s not foolish enough to care. A whiskey back is set on the bar, too, and he wonders if it’s there counter the sour – something sweet, and full of fire. 

He licks his lips, diving into another chorus, and the scent of hot perfume, alcohol, and skin rise up in a cloud as the crowd shakes into it, and into him. He feels the vibration from each and every one of them, and feeds on it, but he can’t stop looking at the woman at the bar – dark hair, fine features, porcelain skin, and he forces back a moan as all of his senses clench when she hitches her heel onto the barstool and the dress falls away from her thigh. His mate told him earlier that there was a party after this one, but he’s not so eager to go now, and thinks that he’ll let the rest of them march on ahead while he lingers here.

But he’s plunged into gritty guitar riffs right at that moment, and for now he forgets everything but the song, and he amps up, sweating to the beat, feeling it surge in his blood, as he strums again, and again, faster, harder, that’s magic, just a slip, and he wants to smoke her cigarettes, and wishes that he were in fact that short, burning relief of the whiskey back she hasn’t touched yet.

And then, the song is over, and he flicks his dark, sweat-damp hair from his eyes, spraying the front with his perspiration, making them squeal and sigh and scream – more, we want more. Fuck, they always want more, and he’s happy to oblige more oft than not, but his throat is beginning to ache, and his fingers twitch for more than just rosewood on a fret board. He thinks about pickups, even as the cymbals clatter and come to a standstill, and he curves on long-fingered hand over the mic and leans there, rocking from his heels to his toes, feeling the way the fabric of his pants stick to damp, lean thighs. He inhales, coughing, and looks once more to the bar.

He leaves his tie where it is, and it succumbs to feverish female fans; he shakes hands with his mates, and steps off stage. He forces himself to keep the barman in sight, but is always aware of the green dress in the corner of his eye. He thinks he’ll feel it when she (finally) looks at him, and he’s right: he does, right in his guts. His last steps are staggered to the bar; he scowls at the crowd around him, ready to accuse the person who’s tripped him, but there’s no one there, really – they’re all rushing the stage, like he’s suddenly been forgotten. He looks at the green dress, and the body beneath, and the face that crowns it: red lips and electric eyes. Her dark hair sweeps over one shoulder as she moves, and she leans up over the bar, stabs her cigarette out in some used highball glass, and leaves the whiskey back on the bar top as she steps away.

He follows.

******************************

The hotel room is just there. There’s no cab ride or ambling stride; he merely watches as she shrugs into that cheetah print coat, takes two steps across the floor, and then pushes the double doors wide. There’s a bed that sags in the middle, and lamp that is no doubt from the seventies which casts a glow that makes him wonder if he’s swimming in that whiskey back she left on the bar. Maybe he is. The jacket falls from her shoulders, and he stops himself from asking why she put it on only to take it off so soon. He stops himself from saying much of anything, beyond an affirmative answer when she asks if he wants something to drink. Her lips don’t seem to move – he’d know; he’s been watching them since he first saw her. They’re still red, unbelievably so, and there’s a strange sensation surrounding him, weightless and guileless. She sinks to the ottoman that is set before the arm chair, and she brushes her hair back over her shoulder while she hooks the back straps of her heels and pulls them off.

Her toenails are painted red to match her lips, and he’s transfixed by them as her toes push into the carpet. She glides towards him; her steps are far too graceful to be described otherwise, and she barely touches his jaw, her fingertips skimming the stubble that has started to sprout in the past-midnight hour. Those eyes of hers are on him, and he can’t look away – not that he wants to. They’re like something from a dream, on the edge of the known galaxy, violet and ultramarine, and full of stars and deep-space promises.

The whiskey she’s poured for him is lifted from his fingers before he has time to have a taste, and before he can issue any protest, her lips are on his, a fine substitute for cold, hard glass. He sinks into them, like her toes in the carpet, like she does into his senses, and she tastes like Maker’s Mark, although he’s certain she hasn’t touched the stuff since she sat down at the bar. The thought is gone with the plush slide of her lips, glancing off his cheek, to his ear, where she breathes his name. He doesn’t remember giving it to her. Again, he doesn’t care, because her hands are warm, and sure, almost too eager, and her fingernails catch his buttons first, and then his skin as she slides his shirt back from his chest, and down his shoulders. Her teeth tug his ear sharply, and suddenly, her fingers are gliding through his dark hair, her nails scoring his scalp, pulling at the thick strands until his head falls back with a sigh. Her lips wander wetly over his chest, and down further, and then she’s breathing against his belly.

The bed is soft as he lands on it, and he pushes himself further up until he can watch her crawl up between his legs, her eyes still sparkling, her mouth caught halfway between a pout and a smirk. His breathing quickens as she tugs his belt loose, and he softly groans his submission as her tongue flashes out along the tender skin below his navel. He’s raging beneath his fly, and pushes against her hands as she pulls the catch and zipper open. He feels out of his head, his element, and completely at her whim, and yet for all the control he craves, he can’t bring himself to care beyond the fact that she’s touching him everywhere somehow, surrounding him with a sweet cloud of scent and the throbbing, crimson lust of her mouth.

A hollow moan leaves him as she wetly descends, and his hips twist as he reaches for her, tangling his fingers into her hair, holding her. He can’t look away, even as her tongue rolls against him and all he wants to do is screw his eyes shut at the way she makes him quiver. It’s almost too much, like when those crowds of people want more; he feels like there isn’t enough of him for what she’s wanting, and he feels like maybe he’ll crawl right out of his skin if he doesn’t stop her. Air hisses between his clenched teeth; his thighs tense, all the way to his buttocks and abdomen. She’s unravelling him faster than he can comprehend and the whimper that leaves him breathlessly startles him, and makes her smile around him. He wants more, and he tells her this, though there’s no sound other than the night outside the open window, and his laboured breathing. She just knows, and she stands at the foot of the bed, and he watches, eagerly.

Her dress, he discovers, is nothing more than an attempt to satisfy the prudish because, in all honesty, she’s the type of woman that looks better naked. He doesn’t recall her wearing a bra or panties, and it doesn’t really matter when he can see all those wickedly curving inches of smooth, creamy skin that blushes candy pink between her thighs and the tips of her breasts. His mouth waters, and sitting up halfway he reaches for her, holds his hand out, beckons her, practically begging, and with a triumphant smirk, she allows him to collect her in his lap.

The headboard of the bed is hard against his back, digging into his shoulders and spine as she pushes him against it. He’s slouching, hips arching up, the head of his cock being kissed by the mouth of her sex, over, and over again. His cheeks burn at the wetness that slides down around him; she crouches over him, like a falcon over a field mouse, and watches; those black irises go supernova as she takes hold of him and puts his length into the tight, sucking, wet heat of her cunt. She feels like heaven, or maybe hell. He doesn’t care which. Her hands wrap his wrists and pull him to hold her hips.

She fucks him, and it is vigorous – hard, sweating, grunting, and wet. He can’t recall a time where a woman was so slick, so accommodating, so absolutely mind blowing-ly electric, that he feels something clench around his heart. Her fingers circle back around his cock, tightening as she rolls up and down, making him ache and tingle and twitch with a growl. Her hips take another angle, and she leans back, her knees spread wide as her hands brace against his thighs. Now he can not only feel her, but he can see her, and the cheap amber light makes it look like the sun is setting behind her. Her curves are the rolling horizon; the sheen of sweat as she bucks and moans is the zenith of this escapade. His blood roars in his ears, and his heart hammers double time with his efforts. Snarling, he sits up and clutches her thighs, digs his fingers in to the firm flesh so hard that she could dust for prints and pin everything on him. He’ll gladly take the fall, hard and fast. 

He huffs, bucking hard, pulling her down once, his gaze a hot magnet and seeming to drag at her. She arches and flexes in a mad symphony, all soaking wet velvet, pulling him with frantic lust. He presses his fingers harder, panting against her mouth, desperate to get her to come again. He’s mad for it now, obsessed – he has to see it.

With a gruff ‘come again,” she does so. It’s pulsing, and wet, and the purely joyful ecstasy on her face makes him rabid. He growls, and huffs, and barks, “yes!” His palm connects with her ass and her hips falter. As her nails scrape across his chest he hisses, slides his hand up her spine, and twists the length of her hair slowly around his fist. He begins to pull her head back, a slow, graceful stretch, while his other hand smoothes between her hips and down over her pubic bone, cupping her sex as he continues to drive into it from beneath her. The fingers in her hair tighten, and he squeezes her pussy until a frantic, breathy cry leaves her. Inside, she swiftly strangles his cock, making the furious heat in his balls begin to work into his hips.

She’s like a bitch in heat, all twisting hips, and whine and whimper, and he watches gluttonously as she works herself on his dick. He sucks in a curse, and digs his heels into the mattress, bringing his knees up under behind her. His change in tactics is enough to throw her off her game, and her legs fall open as his hips push up. When she comes back down, it is harder, and somehow even deeper. It’s tighter, too, a sharper angle, and the way her pussy is clamping around him, he’s certain she’s going to come again, and this time take him with her.

Blood roars in his ears, and his heartbeat is a double kick-drum with a madly pounding tattoo. Each breath he takes his hoarse, and he hears her moans mixing with his own. His body tightens with hers, and then pulses, and everything narrows down to the blinding edge of his climax. It courses through him, boiling, and charging, and surely he’ll implode at any moment because his bones are achingly hot, and he’s shaking just as hard as she is – 

“Mate, wake up.”

He’s shaking, but it’s not the good kind, and his bones ache, but only in the way they do after too much to drink the night before. His teeth rattle. His mouth is dry, and his fingers curl along a sticky surface. The air is stale with booze and nicotine.

He huffs in reply and squeezes his eyes against a pounding headache.

“C’mon, mate, you been here all night?”

The shaking stops, but an elbow digs into his side. His stomach rolls over, and he forces his eyes to open.

There, on the bar, is a single whiskey back. He contemplates it, and then turns bleary eyes to the bright haze coming through the windows. The clock behind the bar reads 6:33 am. Bracing his hands on the bar, he pushes himself up with a groan, noting the way his body feels used and abused. His mind is foggy. His tongue feels fat and overused. His lips are sore in a way that comes from too much kissing. The world tilts on axis and he sucks in a breath to steady himself.

“Jesus Christ, man, you went on a tear,” he hears his best mate exclaim. “Your tie is still hanging from the mic.” Seconds later, it’s draped over his shoulder, and a hand claps him on the back. “C’mon. We got another show tonight.”

He nods, and rasps that he’ll be with them right away. When he’s alone, he stares once more at the shot glass full of whiskey, and he tries to piece together the last moments before he’d woken up at the bar. There’s a residual hum through his body, that kind that comes after fucking, but how the hell had he ended up back here of all places, dressed, and passed out at the bar?

Curling his fingers around the glass, he downs the liquor, and then marches across the floor to the double doors she’d led him through. With a firm grasp on each handle, he yanks it wide, and finds nothing there – no cheap hotel, or soft perfume. No dark haired goddess. No green dress. It’s a store room, nothing more, housing empty kegs and extra tables, the latter most likely cleared for last night’s show.

“Seems like you can walk now.”

He turns to see a vaguely familiar man stroll in with a case of bottles under one arm.

“Found ya curled up in there last night,” the man, whom he’s guessed is the bartender, continues, nodding to the store closet.

He nods, explaining himself away with a shrug and a sheepishly mumbled excuse about a ‘proper tear’, earning him a shake of the head from the bartender. “Tab’s been paid. Cleaners are comin’ in soon; you’ll have to be on your way.”

He nods again and stands, crossing to where his tie still hangs. Slinging it around his neck, when his hands smooth the ends across his chest he hisses, feeling a sting of hot pain. Three steps to the right and he’s staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror behind the bar. He moves the unbuttoned halves of his shirt apart and discovers what he can only describe as claw marks. When he closes his eyes he feels it, and when he opens them again, he sees her – twilight eyes and soft, dark hair, and her perfect, shiny, red mouth.

“Cough drop colored kisses,” he murmurs, watching her reflection vanish.

He should have learned by now that she likes to take a dip in his daydreams. Flicking his phone out, he opens up the notebook app, and writes down this thought, and that of the color of her kisses. When he’s finished, he collects his jacket from the back of his stool, and finds his sunglasses. He doesn’t bother with his hair, merely rakes his fingers through it, pulling it from his face. His sunglasses go on next, and then, he vanishes as quickly as she does, out into the morning sun, and off to another night, another show.

**********************


End file.
